


The Secret Heart

by honey_wheeler



Series: Falling Empires [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Incest, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 14:58:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8450824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: It’s a secret only in that no one ever acknowledges it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @jonsaweek, day 1: Children.

It’s a secret only in that no one ever acknowledges it. 

The Queen knows. Sansa is sure of it. There’s something in the way Daenerys looks at her, in the way she looks at Jon, something wistful and uncharacteristically soft, as if she looks at him and sees something or someone else. Sansa knows little about Westeros’s reigning Queen, but if her life has been anything like Sansa’s, she left a whole different one behind when she came here and began afresh in King’s Landing, a newfound nephew turned new-married husband at her side and Sansa in the shadows behind them.

That Daenerys clearly desires Jon, even as he’s her blood kin, is not the mystery it once might have been to Sansa.

The household seems to know as well. Perhaps not the scullery maids or the cobbler’s boy, but Daenerys’s Kingsguard certainly, her ladies in waiting, her staff. Perhaps some of them even gossip, but if they do, none of it reaches Sansa’s ears, something she suspects Jon has a hand in.

She and Jon need not be caught abed together for everyone to know of their affair.

Sansa imagines Daenerys sometimes, as Jon buries his face between her legs, or suckles at her teats while he moves his fingers inside her. Does it feel this way for his Dragon Queen? she wonders, for she knows Jon doesn’t shirk his marital duty, no matter that he spends his nights in her own bed. Does he unravel Daenerys as fiercely as he does Sansa? Does he make her ache and weep for the sharp severity of the pleasure he gives? Sansa couldn’t begin to guess. She and Jon don’t speak of such things. When he’s in her bedchamber, he barely speaks at all, save in rough endearments, and guttural commands, bidding her to bend to him, to open, to surrender all sense and caution and allow him his sins again and again.

She never thinks of Daenerys when his cock is inside her, though. Every time Jon fucks her, he’s the only thing Sansa thinks about.

It should be strange. The world outside her bedroom door reminds her constantly that it’s her cousin she beds each night, her once-brother. “Sweet cousin,” Daenerys calls her, standing on tip-toe to press her cheek to Sansa’s. Her skin is always warm and dewy from the heat of King’s Landing. Sansa is used to cold hands and cold cheeks. She wonders now how she stood the heat here for so long when she was a girl. 

Jon’s hands are as cool as his tongue is hot. It only makes her want him more. And Gods, she wants him desperately, wantonly, like a woman gone mad. She wants, oh, how badly she wants.

The Queen is barren, her only babe dead in the womb years ago, according to Irri. The duty of furthering the Targaryen line will fall to Jon some years from now, when the continent’s upheaval has fully settled and wartime alliances require strategic reinforcement. Some noble daughter will be plucked from the safety of her bower like a rose, the way Sansa herself once was. Everyone will view it as an honor. Sansa has come to view her own such experience as something more akin to a sacrifice. Even if her betrothed had been as kind and gentle as Jon, rather than monstrous like Joffrey, she thinks she would feel the same.

When she is alone, when matters of rule and royalty take Jon away from her for days on end, she imagines herself mother to that babe, to Daenerys’s future heir. Jon’s true Queen. It would be easy enough to throw away her moon tea, to let Jon’s seed take hold and quicken. It gives her a moment of deep satisfaction to indulge in such petty possessiveness, no matter that such things should be beneath her. At the same time it stirs a long dormant ache. How sweet it would be to give Jon what they’ve both longed for since they were children, a family to call their own, he in his way and she in hers.

“Give me a babe,” she whispers one night as he’s inside her, knowing he wouldn’t – couldn’t – do such a thing but wanting to hear herself say the words nonetheless. Needing him to know her secret heart. “I want a piece of you. I want another Stark in the world.”

He does not reject her or refuse. He doesn’t say that his child will be a Targaryen. He only groans and thrusts into her with increased vigor, fucking her so hard that the bedlinens burn her shoulders as her body jerks up the bed and she has to brace her hands against the bedstead to ease the uncomfortable angle of her neck. He spills inside her, long and hot and hard, longer than she can ever remember before. He fucks her again three times that night, until she can barely move and he simply rolls her to her belly, tugs her hips up with his hands, and takes her all over again, his hands at her waist leaving fingers of purple on her pale skin that she’ll find on the morrow when she takes her bath. She knows from experience that he’ll hate himself a little when he sees those bruises, that he’ll kiss each one and soothe them with his tongue before moving his mouth between her legs for an hour or more, his lips offering silent contrition. She knows from experience that it will overwhelm her, that she’ll be begging for him to cease long before he’s through, a plea she’ll almost truly mean.

She knows from experience that when he lies in her arms, sated at last, as sleepy and boneless as a babe with his breath warming her neck, that she’ll feel more content than she’s ever felt before, even before she knew how rare such contentment could be.

“Will you ever marry, sweet cousin?” Daenerys asks her at supper the next day. “Do you not wish for a family of your own?”

Sansa only shrugs in answer and smiles, though it sits strangely on her lips. Some secrets can be more easily kept than others.


End file.
